


Cold Comfort

by kisahawklin



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Dark, M/M, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I'm yours, John, body and soul,"</i> Rodney'd told him once, drunk enough that he didn't have to remember it the next day. John never even teased him about it, because it had been back when they were still experimenting with what they liked, and he was trying to give John what he wanted. They'd knocked Rodney out with breathplay, alcohol, drugs, even tried deep meditation a couple of times. There was lots of sleepy sex, and Rodney didn't even wake up half the time. Those times were John's favorites.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort

_I'm yours, John, body and soul,"_ Rodney'd told him once, drunk enough that he didn't have to remember it the next day. John never even teased him about it, because it had been back when they were still experimenting with what they liked, and he was trying to give John what he wanted. They'd knocked Rodney out with breathplay, alcohol, drugs, even tried deep meditation a couple of times. There had been lots of sleepy sex, and Rodney hadn't even woken up half the time. Those times have always been John's favorites.

Looking at Rodney across the table from him now, ghostly pale and slumped down in a way he never is when awake, John pours the tea.

John had prepared Rodney carefully, stretching the medical cellophane over the the wound. They had taken care not to mark him, but for the single, sharp slice into his liver.

He looks the same as John remembers from seventy-two hours ago, down to his eerily white socks. Three days. Three days that felt like a lifetime, and whenever John's been captured for three days, he's come back much worse for wear.

Rodney, though, Rodney looks perfect, angel-like, and John had bathed him, let him soak in the hot water like he's always loved to do. There'd only been a rough, smelly soap to wash with, so John had just rubbed Rodney's skin to get it clean, rubbed and rinsed, rubbed and rinsed.

The change of clothes was in the jumper. It's just that John knows that being captured for three days means your clothes are usually beyond repair, if they aren't missing entirely.

That was when they'd left him – when he'd gone back to get Rodney's clothes. He'd told them to give him some time, a day, if they could spare it (and of course they could). Teyla'd gathered the troops and sent them through the gate, hunkering down with Ronon in the jumper to wait. She'd said nothing when he took the med kit and the backpack and headed back to the mostly destroyed village, just nodded at him once and leaned sideways against Ronon.

Teyla's tea ceremony is soothing, but John has always enjoyed ritual. He isn't a big _believer_ , but ritual is peaceful. The quiet confidence of knowing exactly what comes next is comforting.

John speaks his remembrances aloud, haltingly at first, then stronger as things come to mind more easily. He talks about race cars and missions, pranks they played on Elizabeth and Sam and Woolsey. He talks about falling asleep during meditation and how horrible it had been when they came back through the gate and Rodney wasn't on their six. How Ronon had growled for them to open the gate, dial them back _now_ and how he and Teyla had planned the next move when the gate address had been blocked.

He talks about Woolsey's wordless assent and Lorne packing the C4. He talks about Radek swearing in Czech an Carson insisting he be brought along. He talks about finding Rodney, still and perfect on the pyre, and how the blackness of rage overtook him, how he shot aimlessly and set fires and decimated everything except this little hut far enough away from the village not to get caught in the blaze.

Lorne hadn't stopped him, and by the time Teyla'd shown up, it was too late to do anything but put out the fires and move Rodney out of the village square.

John drinks the last of the tea, bitter and cold. Rodney stares at his cup, and John takes it and raises it in a silent toast before tipping it bottoms up.

"I'm tired," he says, the sound eerily flat in the small space. "I think it's time for a nap."

He picks Rodney up, one arm under his knees and another around his back, and carries him to the bed underneath the window. It's not really made for two, but they've slept together in John's twin-sized cot; he knows how to make them fit together in small spaces. He strips them both and arranges himself around Rodney, tucking his knees in tightly behind Rodney's and throwing the furs over them.

He drowses, his almost-sleep filled with fires and screams, his own mingled in with those in the village on fire.

John starts awake, the silence pressing in on him. A thin sheen of sweat makes him slip against Rodney's back, and he smoothes his hands over Rodney's ribs, down to his waist. Rodney's always had the softest skin; he's teased Rodney about it since they started fucking. He passes his hand over Rodney's hip and the small of his back, his third finger resting on the cleft of Rodney's ass, gently, so as not to wake him.

He knows every ticklish spot on Rodney's body. He knows how much friction burns Rodney's skin, how turned on he can get before he wakes up. He knows every nuance, and he recklessly ignores everything, pushing into Rodney without the slow and subtle slip of his fingers, without the carefully placed hand on top of Rodney's cock to let him slide against it in his sleep.

John pulls Rodney down onto him by his hips, slowly pressing in until he's nestled balls-deep in Rodney's body. He rocks back and forth a few times, his hands still shifting over Rodney's skin, until he can't stand it any more. He rolls them together, pushing Rodney face down into the bed and getting behind him, carefully arranging Rodney's legs underneath him so that when he pulls Rodney up onto his knees, they don't give.

He lines up his dick and instead of pushing in to Rodney, he pulls Rodney back onto him, a firm grip on Rodney's hips and a hell of a lot of straining muscles allow him to keep this up for a while, Rodney's limp body moving back and forth on the bed.

The fragile illusion shatters and the finality hits him square in the chest. He leans over and whispers into Rodney's skin as he comes, all the things he never says out loud, all the things he can only hope Rodney knows by osmosis.

"Goodbye," John says, kissing Rodney as he cleans and dresses him for the second time. "Goodbye," he says as he kisses each thigh and pulls on Rodney's pants. "Goodbye," he says, kissing Rodney's shoulders before pulling on his shirt. "Goodbye," he says, kissing Rodney on the mouth before he picks him up and carries him back to the jumper.


End file.
